A Fine Line
by NickeltheRed
Summary: They say there's a fine line between love and hate. So what happens if Spike and Becky start walking along that line? Post-film. Spike/Becky college oneshot.
**I own nothing related to the film.**

 **Inspired by P!nk's song "True Love."**

* * *

Once he turned seventeen, his father had pointed out that he had one more year to decide what he wanted to do with his future. That's it. It wasn't all about gas-station carwashes and becoming the best child-football players Ohio has ever seen anymore. The ol' days couldn't last forever. Life was moving on around them and it was almost time to fly from their nests. By eighteen, Spike knew it was either College Football or Boot Camp. He would have to be his own man then and brave the outside world to prove how capable he really was, to make his father and his other idols proud of him.

Most of their little known _Giant Cowboys_ team had left Urbania by seventeen. The so-called better players from before the final merge (Kevin's players) gained sports scholarships in neighboring states, or in Murphy's case, became a _baseball_ player over the course of that last summer home and went chasing after fame on a totally different kind of field elsewhere. The other ones, (the loud cluster of Danny's underdogs) grew up to have remarkable self-esteem themselves and eventually drove off to the grand University of Chicago, Yale, New York State, the U of Mississippi, or the some colleges with the top art program or whatever—or the one smart kid, Nubie, who got into fuckin' N.A.S.A.

And, whether it be Karma, or be it Fate's wicked sense of humor, the only one he knew to truly remain behind in Urbania's clutches besides him, was the Icebox herself. She was a part of this town, and this town was a part of her, and sometimes, it was just that simple for a girl. She chose to stay, because leaving—abandoning—the place was against her rules.

Her current local dorm is right across the cement pathway from his; it was from the very start of their first semester, but it's not like they ever became close friends before that just because they ended up on the same side and wore the same uniform colors during their closing year of Pee-Wee Football.

So, really, it shouldn't have been that significant.

Even then, the expectations were supposed to be cut and dry to begin with. They were older now, thriving to handle important things separately without the adults to direct them and supervise them on a daily basis. They had their own routines all mapped out, and for once they weren't forced to interlink. So, again, in the beginning of college, living that close to one another wasn't going to matter anyway. Whenever they passed each other in the hall, or on the sidewalk, or met eyes during one of his football games, they had this silent agreement to just nod at each other if the mood was appropriate, or do nothing at all and look the other way.

But what Spike hadn't expected, was running into her rather frequently, and every time it was all by sheer chance.

The first accidental shoulder-bump was at the drug store. She needed ointment for a the fresh scrape on her knee earned from a tree-climbing incident, and he was picking up aspirin for the pounding headache he got after practice that day (because the one major different thing about College Football versus Pee-Wee and High School Football is that his recent teammates are all older, taller, and bigger in size like he is, and he's no longer playing against boys _literally_ half his size—so, when he's tackled over and over again, his body actually _feels_ the impact now.) Their second unplanned meeting in college happened at a party on the ground floor of her dorm. He wandered up to the foosball table and there she was, already waiting for her turn to play winner, wearing tattered jean shorts and a plain black sports tank, with her long dark hair flowing down and a red Solo cup held in her hand. The third time was at the diner where her old man and uncle always go to for burgers and Pepsi. The fourth time occurred after a big seasonal game their campus won and somehow the crazy cheering crowd flooding down from the bleachers had just kind of drove them closer together and they collided. Her smiling face was painted for the occasion that night and he was sweating from all the action. Then, it wasn't long after _that_ when they started to learn where the other would be at a precise hour and knew what they would be doing there.

And so, here they are now.

She finds him in the small medical ward they have on the far end of Urbania's campus. His ribs are turning black and blue and they ache like hell. She first sees him sitting there shirtless on the cot, literally wincing in pain when his friend, Gordon, slaps a happy hand on his back, admiring the blow he had taken for the sake of the winning the match. He looks up, noticing her saunter in, hesitant for a mere second, unsure of herself. But then she huffs, rolls her eyes, and begins swatting the rest of the muddy teammates out of her way, coming up right in his face just to call him an idiot as she leans in to inspect the deep gash dented into his forehead.

Her hand reaches out suddenly and the soft slope of her thumb lands over his eyebrow, stretching his skin for a better look.

"Ow!" he hisses between his teeth, tilting himself away from her touch. "Watch it, Ice Package."

"Don't be such a baby," she shoots back coolly, getting all set and ready for another round of their usual insults. "It can't hurt _that_ much. It's not even bleeding right now."

He's glaring back at her, not forgetting the fact that they're not alone. His whole team is watching. "It still stings when you touch it, though! So hands off me!"

"Aww, you're right...," she mock-pouts, her dark lashes fluttering away all too sweetly in exaggeration. "Poor Spikey got an owie."

His surrounding teammates break out into a ripple of wheezing laughter, apparently charmed by her wit.

He turns his head in warning, firing a bitter look towards them, and they stop.

Despite the underlying tension forever bubbling between the two of them, she's still the one who lingers behind to help him in the end, slinging his arm around her neck and she walks him back to his place.

After that, nothing changes that drastically for them. He never goes out of his way to seek her company and she mainly focuses on her studies in Sociology more days than she does trying to hunt him down simply to annoy him.

But tonight, they both show up at the same bowling alley. On the end lane, closest to the wall, he's emerges with Gordon and Franky on his heels, and Icebox is out with this big, giggling flock of girls three lanes down to their left. Her cousin's there too—Debbie—that blonde chic who actually looks more like a real-life Barbie Doll and is always flaunting off that vibrant cheerleader's skirt of hers—and Spike immediately pieces it all together. Icebox is clearly odd one out. She's just the tag-along, the Black Sheep. And he almost pities her for it; she's all grown up now and in all honesty, maturity had been quite kind to her. She's not _exactly_ 'ugly-duckling' material anymore, but hell, she's still no _cheerleader_. She doesn't fit in with those girls and the smile she's giving them seems strained and fake. She's feeling awkward over there...that much he can see. He's even surprised to see that she's _willingly_ out in public wearing a summer dress like _that_ one. It was probably her cousin's idea.

"Hey, Ice Trunk!" he calls out deliberately, and the girls turn around to face him all at once like an army of pretty, glittering alien clones. In her own chair, Icebox stiffens and peers back at him in sheer curiosity as he holds up the bowling ball he's got in an offering manner. "Bet you can't strike out!"

There's a pause, and then they all turn back towards Becky, watching her in slight confusion. But she gets it; he's providing her a challenge, and remarkably, a subtle escape. She takes the hint. And with a grateful smirk creeping across her overly-glossed lips, she rises from her seat, ignoring the rest of them and approaches him with purpose. She playfully rips the ball from his grasp. "Try me," she says.

"Nice dress, by the way," he remarks as she continues to stride past him, heading over to their own lane. He follows. "Never pegged you to throw anything that has blue sparkles on it."

"Yeah...about that. I'll be burning it when I get home. Just don't tell Debbie."

He actually barks out a laugh at the thought, and briefly reintroduces her to the guys afterwards. Their initial reluctance to let her join them is soon replaced with open admiration. She freely shows off every competitive impulse she has left in her body and bowls like a real guy herself. (And, behold, she does get the first _and_ last strike.)

Over the course of several more weeks, they somehow manage to insert each other into their everyday lives, and to a more-so personal degree at that. She comes out to the bars with him and the team on the weekends, or just appears unannounced at his door, carrying in bags of groceries and nags him to his dirty laundry that's overflowing the closet. Sometimes they lounge on his rundown loveseat and just talk (though mostly in the form of long debates and obsessive name-calling) about their parents or where they possibly envision themselves in the next six years or so. And frankly speaking, it can be refreshing for both of them to have that sort of communitive outlet.

Yet, Spike doesn't care to thank her ever for the certain attention he gets from her, since he doubts if that's what she's even looking for. She doesn't _need_ his authorization, or craves his approval. She does it because she wants to.

"...Debbie says a lot of her friends think you're a real hunk." There's mockery etching into her features now and her fingers are absentmindedly toying with the curls laying at the base of her neck.

"Is this going be a fix-up-date for me?"

"For you? No."

"Then why bring it up?"

Icebox shrugs. "Just 'cause."

He scoffs then. Girls are ridiculous. "I'm startin' to think I should've gone to Boot Camp. There'd be no pesky girls there."

Her face drops, genuinely caught off guard, or she's confused. He can't tell which it is today. "Seriously, Spike? You'd rather be training for _war_ , or facing potential _death_ in action rather than talking to another a girl for one more day?"

"Hey, I'm talkin' to _you_ right now, aren't I?"

"I meant, with a girl you could see yourself falling for."

He shakes his head. "Nah. Those girls like your cousin aren't really my type."

It's her turn to scoff. "And here I thought all the football stars go after cheerleaders."

"I'm not saying that...I _hate_ looking at cheerleaders," he adds, "I just don't wanna be stuck on a date with one that talks all about her high heels and nail polish."

"That's _not_ all girls do, Spike. Some of us just want you to actually listen for once. I think it wouldn't hurt to _ease_ up on your caveman ways, ya know."

"Oh, Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Overall, their true-friendship-in-the-making gets so damn complex some days. For old habits die hard and new habits are equally easy to pick up. And since they're more involved with each other's individual habits, good or bad, they are learning secrets too.

One night, Spike hears that she got her first real paying job at the vintage piano bar on the western edge of town. She's a waitress there, but some days, she'll be scheduled to get on stage and sing a little with a guitar. The real kicker is, that regardless of her I'm-a-real-tomboy-at-heart persona, Icebox can sing just fine for a small-town setting like that, and the special costumes she might pick out and the chosen songs with a lot of high notes will remind everyone that she is, in fact, a female.

On Thursday, Spike surprises her by waiting by her the door after her afternoon shift is done and he offers her a snack at the café across the street.

"...Does your dad know where you're working?" he aims her way as they cross safely through oncoming traffic.

"Of course. I basically tell him everything."

"So...how come you've been embarrassed about your singing for so long?"

"Whoever said I was embarrassed by it?"

"Well, now that I've heard you sing myself, I can tell that you knew how to sing way before this," he points out, "and that's probably why your boss hired you. But...you never sang back then we were kids. Is because you thought it made you _too_ girly to play football?"

"No," she reacts. "It didn't matter how good I was at music...I just didn't _like_ to do it a lot when I was a kid."

"Why not?"

There's a weird pause between them before she explains, "...My mom was really into music."

Spike instantly knows that's a bad thing. He doesn't have to be Nubie, or any other kind of genius to realize he just struck a nerve. He could read her well enough. Even when they were once enemies out on the field, he could read her as plain as day. He knew tackling Junior with the hidden intent to injure him would bother her. He learned quickly that his _"Spike don't play with girls"_ philosophy nearly drove her to physically fight him right there and then when they first met.

"...She actually left us...because of it," she finishes with a sigh and there's a distant look in her eye. "For a career like that."

"S'rry," he grunts, feeling obligated to back off the subject for now.

"It's fine."

They grab a corner table at the café and they each order a chocolate-strawberry smoothie while chowing down a stack of sugar cookies. And as Spike eventually leads her back outside towards her car, night has fallen over Urbania, and his hand is placed on the lower part of her back as they walk for a bit, and she can't control the mild blush heating up her cheeks. Because, she is aware it's only _Spike_ , but even so, he's a college guy and she's a college girl, and they're now touching under the glow of starlight. It does feel slightly...intimate, whether he sees it this way too or not.

Thus, Thursday after Thursday, the whole 'ordering-chocolate-strawberry smoothies-and-eating-sugar-cookie' gig becomes a regular _thing_ that they do after she gets off work.

Before long, the timing of things seem to tease her (or cheat her somehow), since it's almost been a full year of this now and they're both about to be sophomores once the coming summer passes.

And then, people in Ubania start to talk. Because, generally, they're _always_ hanging out together now, and they're attached at the hip, and more than half the time, they're hanging out all alone in her dorm or over at his. Needless to say, that's when the... _assumptions_ are being made. And, her regular _"We are just friends!"_ excuse, or Spike woofing out, _"She's not my girl!"_ is no longer that effective.

No one is really listening to them.

(Nonetheless, they have an understanding—if she doesn't bring it up in public, then he shouldn't either.)

All the other guys in her classes label her 'taken' just because they're not too keen on testing Spike Hammersmith's strength, or his temper. And the few other girls who still find Spike attractive act all cautious around her in comparison; like they have to judge the situation first. They have this primal need to measure out the bond she shares with Spike and size her up before they'll strut over and lamely flirt with him.

So, for a while, she outright refuses to feed the rumors any further than that. She drives herself to work instead and avoids the café. She stops spending her free time with him and his teammates, and opts to meander around with her cousin instead for a couple of weeks. She then introduces herself to Samantha Stiles, who's a new transfer art student, and they go out for drinks on Friday nights. And eventually, she goes on several casual, no-pressure, friendly dates with a boy named Taylor Miller who she had met earlier on in her Psych class.

But—the strangest part is—during her supposedly-justified withdraw from Spike's daily routine, the campus' College Football rep begins to suffer apparently. They lose three games, _four_ games, _five_ games, and Spike's starting to trip over his own two feet across the field and keeps fumbling the ball after every throw that's made. No one understands what could be messing him up.

His father, who's sitting in the front row in the bleachers beneath her, has a plain grim expression on his face when the team loses the _sixth_ game that night because Spike couldn't even _see_ the pig-skin flying towards him in time.

(Spike's gonna be shipped off to Boot Camp soon for real if he can't get his shit together!)

So, Icebox really has no other choice but to take this a sign that maybe what she did was wrong, and the Universe might be scolding her for tossing Spike aside so heartlessly, and she tries her best to just tiptoe her way back into his social circle, trying to be all smooth about it. Thankfully, it works and no one (including Spike) really questions it. It's just what it is. And they go back to how they were months before, with Spike being the best player out there again, scoring all the touchdowns for their team.

Similarly, she never misses a game either, not one, even if it's actually just for fun in the park over the weekend. And, in spite of the fact that Pee-Wee Football is long behind them, there are numerous occasions when he'll call her over to play with the guys because they're shorthanded in their casual-picked teams.

He personally comes to listen to her sing acoustic Elvis cover-songs with the classic guitar every Thursday night still and he helps her lock up the joint when all their customers gradually leave right before closing curfew.

However, there are some bad days as well, unsurprisingly. (He angers her and she pisses him off. He belittles her and she'll degrade him. He yells at her, she screams back. If he pushes her back just a tiny bit too roughly at the shoulders, she'll get right in his personal space again and jab her fingers into his chest until he cracks and storms off.)

Presently, she's already put in a bad mood because of a bad customer experience from that morning...and plus, her airhead of a manager left her behind tonight to take care of _her_ last bit of chores. Spike tells her to let it go. But in reply, Icebox merely continues to flip the chairs up and she slams them against the tabletops, peeved by his obvious lack of sympathy.

He calls her overdramatic then, and she reels on him, her lazy side-braid almost whipping him in the face. She shoves him back a step. And okay, maybe, as a guy, he should _know_ better than to actually tell a girl she's being overdramatic directly. But still, he lightly shoves her back.

 _"_ Just leave." She retorts shortly, rejecting the idea of getting smoothies and sugar cookies after this. "I think I just lost my appetite."

"Oh, c'mon. What's the big deal, Ice Cube? So some dumb kid booed you in front his friends. I mean, we had a shitty practice meeting yesterday—Devins was hungover, Keith got a concussion and threw up over the ball, and Reynolds and Anderson were an hour late because they were fighting over a girl out in the parking lot—but I didn't go bitchin' about that for the rest of the day."

"So?" She pushes past him with a very familiar scowl, her shoulder hitting his. "I'm not like you. I actually feel things, you Neanderthal, and I _hate_ it when boys think it's okay to just open their big, fat mouths and just insult someone like that, in that way. If chivalry's truly dead, then I'd like someone to prove me wrong!"

"...Chivalry?" Spike's cynical. He can't believe his ears. Where is this coming from? Where is her mind even going with this? "Since when do you care 'bout all that stuff, _Princess_?"

She pauses. Her eyes flicker. "Wait. What?"

He's becoming confused now too, wondering what he missed. "What?"

She looks down to the tile, suddenly all self-conscience and she waves it off. "Nothing. It's just that...it's been a long time...since I was called that."

They're standing very close, toe to toe, chests squared, breath to breath.

Then, oh god, things between them just got _real_. A little bit awkward, and unusually tense, yes. But real.

One moment they're staring at each other, and in a blur, the next thing she knows, he's leaning and they're kissing, and she does not pull away in fright.

Her fingers are scraping up his neck, up through his typical crew-cut hair, and tugs him flush up against her. His breath is hot on her mouth and it's not unpleasant. The memory of her very first kiss all those years ago, the one shared with Junior when she turned twelve abruptly pales in comparison. So does Taylor Miller.

As they move together, stumbling backwards five paces and push against the rim of the nearest table, she's only left to assume that what they say is true.

There's a fine line between love and hate, and they've just found that very line.

The following Saturday when she calls it their first real date out loud, Spike rolls his eyes but says nothing to correct her. Everyone they know is shocked by the news...though then again, they're really not shocked at all. They all sensed their newfound relationship was bound (or doomed, or fated, or whatever) to take place eventually. No two people can pester each other so much with a passion like theirs and _not_ mistake that hatred for bottled-up romantic attraction in the end.

He finally makes a point to deliberately _show her off_ to the other guys, saying that she's not boring like those damn cheerleaders are. And Icebox, returns the favor, and she finally doesn't deny that she's cheering only for him in the stands when their team plays at home.

For his birthday, they fly out to Tampa Bay for a long-awaited football game that would evidently define the entire Super Bowl that season. For hers, they go rock climbing all afternoon and go back to her vacant dorm to watch a marathon of classic action films, her bare legs stretching out comfortably over his on the futon.

Essentially, Spike comes to _prefer_ that she's the girlfriend who is willing to paint her nails an elegant deep red just for him when they spend a hot day at the beach _and_ she'll also eat tons of greasy nachos and shoot whiskey with him down at Urbania's new sports bar during Monday Night Football just the same.

She learns overtime that he grows soft and practically melts in her grip whenever she'll kiss the base of his neck just right, and _he_ learns that he can really turn her on if he calls her his ' _Princess'_ rather than _'Icebox_ ,' (they make love several different times over the course of Christmas Break because of it, honestly) since to her, that's a special term of endearment which reminds her of the happiest pieces of her childhood when she felt like she was somebody's entire world.

Later on, as the winter rolls by, Urbania's new spring weather beats a new record this year. It's a very warm and sunny February and there's no left snow left on the ground, and the grass is already greening again by that point. And so, when Valentine's Day comes along, and all the other girls like her cousin Debbie, are continuously fretting about the perfect dress to wear on their special dates that night and find the perfect shoes to match that perfect dress, Icebox has utterly different plans.

She and Spike don't bother with red roses, teddy bears, or scramble to get a fancy dinner reservation out in the big city. They just decide to pack up a travel-cooler with a six-pack of beer and four turkey sandwiches and they end up in their old football field where the _Little Giants_ had played against the _Cowboys_ and their two teams became the Giant Cowboys a month later. The two of them just play one-on-one, running and laughing, chasing each other, trying to tackle each other for the hell of it. They go tumbling into the painted grass together that ultimately turns into a long, heated kissing session. They concluded their private date-night by sitting side by side in the center of the field, feasting on their make-shift picnic, with their knees always touching, clothes all dirty and damp.

It starts to rain slightly on their contented walk home. They even choose to hold hands the whole way back. Though after they reach the main curb, they spot Debbie sniffling to herself, sitting alone outside on her parents' porch.

She sighs. "I should probably go talk with her. I'll call you tomorrow."

Spike agrees and grants her a short goodnight kiss along her hairline before taking off for his dad's house.

She steadily approaches her cousin, immediately asking her what is wrong.

"Oh, Thomas was such a pig tonight, Becky! He wasn't into it at all!" whines Debbie miserably as she scoots a little closer to her, seemingly glad to have willing ear to listen to her troubles. She smears her mascara into black lines down her cheeks when she wipes her tears away. "He complained the whole time and blamed me for all the hassle. I swear it was the _worst_ Valentine's Day of my entire life!"

Icebox frowns, not knowing what else she could really do. She'd happily kick Thomas in the nuts for Debbie, sure, though he's nowhere to be seen. For some awful reason he just dumped her on the street to cry. "I'm sorry, Debbie," she offers her. "That sucks."

Debbie nods back and sniffs, then blinks in confusion, examining her over from head to toe. She just now notices what a mess she is, all wet from the rain and caked with grime from the field. "Oh, god. What happened?" she presses on. "Did you have a bad night, too?"

And for the sake of familial courtesy, Icebox merely shakes her head and tells Debbie she's fine. She doesn't let Debbie know that she's actually feeling really ecstatic on the inside and she shouldn't be rubbing it in.

'Cause today honestly was the _best_ Valentine's Day she's ever had herself. If fact, it was the best _date_ she and Spike had yet. And she could read between the lines well enough. She knows the feeling is mutual for him.

* * *

The one who opens the door is Spike and Junior Floyd is left standing there, momentarily stunned, his fist still raised in midair, ready to knock again. Although now, that's pointless.

Spike has no shirt on and long black shorts hang low on his hips.

"...Spike?"

"Why don't'cha take a picture, Pretty Boy," he grumbles in turn, "it'll last longer."

"I was just, uh, looking for Becky," Junior says, brow arced. "My mom told me this is where I could find her. This is the right dorm, isn't it?"

"Babe," from inside the room off to the left, there's a girl's voice calling out. "Who is it?"

Junior's brief confusion shifts into full-on dreadful curiosity as the girl with long dark waves (who resembles Becky an awful lot) suddenly slides into view behind Spike, and she casually wraps her arms around his torso, lips resting on his shoulder before she refocuses on the doorway. Junior swallows. She's dressed in nothing but a blue and yellow jersey that's clearly too big for her, but he pretends not to notice.

Though she still greets him with a bright, warming smile, realizing it's him. "Junior!" She pulls then in for a hug, and shrinks back into Spike's side who willingly drapes his arm around her neck in response, holding her in place. "...You're the last person I would have expected to show up here today," she adds quickly. "What made you drive all the way home from Illinois?"

"I have Thursdays and Fridays off this semester, so you know, now I have all these four-day weekends open. And...I...thought I'd surprise you and take you out for a burger or somethin' to catch up. But...I guess you're already busy?"

"Nope, I'm free." She tells him politely. "Spike needs to get goin' to practice anyway. Big game tomorrow and everything. I can tell you more about it on the way."

"Uh, sure, okay."

Once Spike throws on more layers and slings a bulky dufflebag over his shoulder, he heads for the doorway where Junior lingers, watching he and Becky in silent wonder. Becky's hauling on her ripped-at-the-knee jeans on and laces up her black combat boots, grabbing her keys and jacket on the way. When her back is turned for that one moment though, Junior can read the single big number that's bestowed on the back of the jersey she's wearing today. It's number 28, and the name stitched across its shoulder blades just happens to be: _Hammersmith._ And before the two step out into the hall with him, they lean in for a peck on the lips, as if it was just automatic and they don't really recall he's right there, witnessing it.

Junior's eyes discreetly dart around the rest of her dorm room and he sees her bed is a mess, clearly signaling that it was previously occupied by two people sleeping in it, and there's two toothbrushes tossed on the nightstand, and even though Becky's absent roommate has to be another girl, judging by the flowery purple quilt spread across the opposite bed, there's still a pair of large male sneakers kicked off in front of their small television set. (Spike must be a very common visitor).

Becky finally shuts the door behind her, twists the key to lock it, and wishes Spike good luck as he waves to her (well, it's more of a lazy bat of his hand) and clomps away.

"Okay. Ready?" she chirps afterwards, turning in his direction.

Junior nods, and he has to think extra hard to make his feet work on command before he starts to follow her down the next staircase. "So...um...," and _wow_ , he sounds like a real fucking mastermind at conversation right now, "...you and Spike?"

"Oh, right. That." Supposedly, for her, that fact just sinks in and a meek laugh escapes her. She must now apprehend just how crazy it was for him to observe them together like that. After all, when Junior moved away, she and Spike were still at complete odds with each other for as far as he was concerned. "Yeah. Sorry. I sorta forget you weren't around to see it happen."

"But, really, Becky? _Spike_?"

Her hands slide into her back pockets, and she nods back. "Really, really." Then she gently kicks a stone out of her path and her eyes lower to the pavement.

"For how long?"

"Ah, officially?" she looks up again and tries to do the exact math in her head, and just ends up giving him a rough estimate. "About a year or so."

"A year?" Junior is floored. He can't even fake courtesy and mind his own business; it's a little too late for that. The shock of it all is already getting the best of him by the time they're outside and crossing over the grass, aiming for the usual diner at the end of the block. "A whole year? Does his dad know?"

"Pfft. Yeah, he knows." At least Becky is amused by his nosy expression.

"Does _your_ dad know?"

"Yeah. He does, too."

"Does my mom know?"

"Well, of course she does. They _do_ live together now, remember?" Reflecting back on this, she shrugs matter-of-factly, stating that, "Basically _everyone_ in Urbania knows by now, Junior."

Junior stops for an instant. His features fall into something a bit more serious, and he actually sounds just a tad bit _betrayed_ somehow when he asks her the true one question that's apparently mocking him the most. "How?"

Becky stops too and throws a pointed look over her shoulder. "How what?"

"How did it happen? I'm sorry. But It's just so _weird_ ," he emphasizes with hand running through his hair. "I thought he...really bugged you, like, bugged you to no end..."

"He did," she agrees, attempting to console him. Trying to show him that he's not totally delirious and he hadn't been living in a separate illusion since the old days. Spike _did_ bother her in the past, and Junior _had_ been her Number 1. She had ditched her pom-poms just for the sake of avenging Junior's pride when Spike intentionally injured him, after all. Spike can push her buttons like no else. "Look, Junior. Dating him wasn't _planned_. And, Spike and I are not this perfect, shining couple now or whatever. We still get on each other nerves. A lot. Only now...it's for _different_ reasons. I _know_ it seems insane, but there's a...a real spark there. We make it work."

"Okay, but still..." Junior wants to be accepting and supportive, although, all the imaginary puzzle pieces just aren't fitting together that great for him. He still sees plot holes in this story, and the key factors don't align in his brain. It's Spike and Becky! Becky _and_ Spike! "What do you even like about him, then?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean...even now, when I got your dorm, he still seemed like a compete ape-man."

"Yeah," she snorts, not denying this either, "he still has his Spike-ish moments every so often."

"So, what changed? Why do you like him now?"

Now Becky merely sighs and she comments that he's been away from home for too long and hadn't seen what they've been through, though she puts the effort into explaining how she really feels anyhow. "It's because...I really didn't have to pretend to be something I'm not since he already knew the type of girl I was before. I like to be treated like one of the guys, but I don't want anyone to overlook the fact that I'm female either. And he doesn't tell me that I _have_ to act a certain way in order to keep dating him, you know? In his own blunt and boyish way, he lets me have the best of both worlds."

That's when Junior notices something _new_ gleam deep within her dark brown eyes and he's been so preoccupied with hounding her for answers about her and Spike that he hadn't seen it twenty minutes earlier. It's becoming clearer.

It's Becky and Spike, Spike and Icebox, and despite that it's a full year (which blows his mind), they're still a couple.

And Becky's wearing _his_ jersey under her jacket today and there're two toothbrushes laying out on her nightstand.

"Wow, Icebox." His voice feels oddly strained and hollow and lenient all at once. "You really do like that idiot, don't you?"

"No," Becky shrugs again, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "I love that idiot."


End file.
